


Post Traumatic Stress

by FlametheSeraph



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort, I'm dead serious warning you now this gets into the nitty gritty of PTS, Little bit of Fluff, M/M, Mental Health disorders, No Smut, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Potentially Upsetting, Pre-Relationship, Sharing a Bed, Tim forces self-care onto Jay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:49:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25909882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlametheSeraph/pseuds/FlametheSeraph
Summary: Jay suffers a PTS attack.
Relationships: Jay Merrick/Timothy "Tim" Wright
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31





	Post Traumatic Stress

**Author's Note:**

> Ok BIG MEGA FUCKING WARNING!!! - this delves deep into PTSD and several REAL stories, some including my own experiences. These are upsetting and touchy subjects. You have been warned.  
> I censored any super graphic details but it can still be very upsetting. I designed this to be like a storm, angry and raging at first but finally calms down, just like a flashback or panic attack.
> 
> If you don't want to read the nitty gritty stuff, I will leave !---! Marks that you can skip by to signal the bad stuff.
> 
> If you have PTS or suspect you do, I strongly recommend talking to someone. Therapy, psychologist, a group session, anything. PTSD, like many mental disorders, has a tendency to leave hooks in your brain leaving you to feel isolated, distrustful, and even hateful of mental health practitioners. This is the disorder. Not you. It will use any tricks necessary to fuel itself. 
> 
> And in some cases, I've learned, that facing the things that trigger you, is the only way to overcome it. It's daunting. But it can be done. Thousands, millions have been there. It gets better. You will have bad days. And terrible days. But they will grow to be less common, more in-between and you can finally have your life back. You may get worse before getting better. But it DOES get better.  
> Battling these things is an uphill struggle that someone rubbed Crisco down the hill.

Jay lays in saturnine sheets, tired and empty. Fearing the empty. Fear the void. It's dark, the only lights are a green button from the microwave and the red of the smoke detector and whatever light seeps under the door. His throat feels funny, and it bothers him. He's run out of tapes and leads and he _hates_ the waiting. Because stillness means the thoughts come trickling back in. Stillness meant sleep and sleep meant dreams and dreams meant _memories_. He needed the tapes to avoid the memories. But he was out of his prescription. And Tim would be coming over after work. He couldn't be seen like this.

But there are rusty chains in this mattress binding his heart down. Stuck and claustrophobic in his blankets, he panics. He cannot move. He can move but he _cannot_ move. The A/C makes a buzz as it switches it's mode, and the sound is all too similar and he doesn't want to turn around. If he turns around. If he breathes. If he sees, it will be there. The faceless man to torture him. 

He attempts self-reasoning. It is useless. Vines are growing from the corner of the room and he cannot work the courage to turn and see the monster standing there. If he just pretends to be asleep, to be gone, he'll get out of this alive.

And this is how Jay ends up for several hours, frozen stiff in his cotton grave, shaking and whimpering but never moving because if he moves he will be seen and he will die. If he breathes too loud he will be seen and he will die. If he opens his eyes even a bit he will be seen and he will die. The room is empty and safe, but there's no one to tell him that.

Deep down he _knows_ the diagnosis his doctor said all those years ago. The fateful 4 letter acronym that felt like the end of the world.

PTSD isn't a fearful disposition, isn't a constant sadness, isn't a generalized symptom, isn't the intrusive, gut-crunching way that Tim slammed his car door that makes Jay imagine cracking skulls and bones.

No, Post-Traumatic Stress is too simple a term.

.

.

.

What is it really?

.

.

.

!!!!--------!!!! [Sensitive Stuff Starts Here]

It's spasming on the tiled floor with your nails scratching the cement lines for purchase, for texture, and screaming "THIS IS MY BLOOD, AND I'M GOING TO USE IT!" like an enraged wolf with a red maw. Never really knowing what you meant by the phrase. Never really knowing whether it was you or he that day who yelled.

It's like the meeting of a young woman and an old grizzled veteran, both staring at one another with the same dead look. The same understanding. That their eyes have reflected the end of their world like a mirror.

PTSD is the crawling smile on your face when hell breaks loose, because it is the only thing you can taste now. You live in it. You have to be near death, chasing tapes and blood and violence all because you don't know how to live otherwise. It's watching the sirens of an ambulance go bye and thinking "God I wish I could follow them." A person so far gone they can't even realize they're crying anymore.

PTSD is known but not said. The kind eyes of a suicide counselor who's daily routine consists of being screamed at by the people they try to save. So badgered and butchered they don't know what hate is anymore. They only reach that bloody and broken hand forward to the next patient. The next patient. The next patient. Help the next patient. Because if you stop, you'll have to help yourself. And they don't want to go back there. The scars on their arms are a brand on their corrupting soul. It was never pretty to begin with.

It is the smiling faces of the first responders, wondering which ones have it. Which ones have it? In that group photo lined in rows, a sea of smiling faces. _Who is hiding it?_

They all do.

Every single asshole among them. 

And they know it.

They live it.

Doing their best to ignore the people that jeer "You signed up for it!" 

Listen to me. 

No one signed up for PTSD. No one signed up to cut the body down from noose in a house after it has rot for days on end. No one signed up for the man who shot himself in the head and lived for 45 minutes afterwards. What was left of his mouth flapping like a fish for air. The head paramedic never signed up with the thought that they would have to put a patient out of their misery.

It was never in the contract. The paperwork. The arson check. The harassment check. The physical. No one ever said or wrote. But who could have? No one saw this coming.

One in particular, lives his memory everyday. A brutal and bloody car accident. That day he saw something worse than any horror movie could ever portray. He dislodges the mother from the front seat who is banged up, but alive. She asks him if her daughter is alright. He looks in the back seat. 

She is _still_ alive.

But there is no god.

He lies to her "She's unconscious but we'll get her." 

The mother tries to turn her head, and he grabs her, forcing her face into his coat because she _cannot see this_. She will never breathe again if she sees. 

And he removes the child himself. 

Piece by piece.

So that his partners won't look. Won't see. 

He throws up, he sees it printed on his eyelids every night like tattoos.

He and the rest of them already know their end is attached to the endless wires of a life support machine surrounded by no one. Because their family is already gone, succumbing to the same illness.

But not tonight. Tonight, they cackle and laugh and hollar because they are hyenas. Hyenas at the frontline, enjoying their staking claim of a job well done. They sing to the moon because one day they will no longer be able too. Life is an illusion. A dream of fire and stars. 

PTSD is that "weird" kid in your school. Who one day shrieks bloody murder and spasms on the digusting ground, rolling in crumbs, dust, hair, as they cry. As the others try to ignore them, or pull out their phones to record. The kid that punched the teacher because they thought they were going to rape them. The kid being shaken by the school resource officer to wake up. To wake up. That you're alive still. But you don't want to wake up because the shame that will greet you is worse than the memories, in their opinion at least.

It is the soldier that remembers the gorey remains of human beings each and every night. The horrible mistakes they've made and the sins committed. They can't talk about it because it terrifies normal people. Makes them uncomfortable. So they're forced into silence by others. **"IT WAS WARRRRRRRR!"** They hear that scream in their mind. But it makes nothing better.

It is the one resigned to Hermetism. Because they can't stand the **_arguing_**. Can't stand the fake-ness of it all. Can't trust themselves when they're formed out of hatred for others. Everything they say or will ever say is _wrong._ Tape his mouth shut, before he regrets anything more.

It's the teen who's foot can't stop shaking, who's sick and tired of being asked what drugs they're on, when the answer is they've always been stone-cold sober. Because everyone in their family fucked themselves with golden beer and red wine. With green leaves and black ashes. With needles and pills and metal canisters and spoons and lighters and pipes and dust and piss. Who smell like formaldehyde, line up in their coffins like wax dolls. Makeup on. They could wake up at any second to drag you down into the grave with them. Who were already dead even though they were alive. Stuck in the past for eternity. The teen said goodbye a while ago.

It's the combat veteran with the service dog talking to a class of ill-mannered middle schooler's who ask _way_ too many personal questions. It's the forevermore feeling that no one understands you but it's the thought that you know that many _do_. Many just like you. 

It's the dorm mate that screams into the night with terrors and apologizes every morning for keeping you up.

It's all the people who refer to it as PTS because they hate the _disorder_. They weren't born with it. They were _made_ this way by others. They want to break and tear at the labels which damned them.

!!!!-----!!!! [Ends Here]

And it is Jay Merrick. Lying in his car and in shitty motels. Eyes so darkened with sleeplessness, because in his circumstance waking life is better than the dream. Because if he goes to sleep the terrors will get to him. Don't sleep. Don't sleep…

**But all bad things must come to an end** **.**

PTSD is the friend that kneels down to you after you've screamed senseless obscenities into the tiles. Who tells you they understand. They know you don't control it. They tell you, that even if the world thinks you're weird, they still have your back.

PTSD is the smile and handshake of that young woman and veteran, the knowing nod. The acknowledgement. The validation. That even though their experiences differ vastly, they felt the same fears in the night. The same feelings and thoughts and the same hells. That smile that says "I may only understand one thing about you, but I still respect you."

PTSD is the determined glare after the crazed smile. It's the knowledge that you are broken and crazed, but you know in your heart of hearts what you're doing is right. It's resignation and peace-making with the life you've been given. It's looking at the ambulance and saying, "Go get em' Tiger."

PTSD is the warm arms and hugs of the counselor's counselors. The group of people that understand their plight. Their job with little to no thanks. They understand. And that's all you need. For someone to understand at the end of the day. So you can awaken the next day and continue to extend the hand to help those on death's door.

PTSD is that first responder who breaks down into tears, and their coworkers - their family, stand by them, in a silent understanding. They have all fallen, and will fall again, and will get back up. Their chief wrapping them in a bruising hug. Their charge nurse wiping away the tears with a cool cloth and the angry red marks left by the surgeon's masks. The superior officer that comes to their room door, asking what they need right now. A hug. Preferably.

PTSD is that "weird kid" 3 years later, a beaming smile, ready to take on the world. They've already learned the meaning of life, even at such a young age. Impervious to the future's blunders. They show kindness to everyone they meet because no one gave them the same courtousy. 

PTSD is the soldier who finally decided to seek aid in a therapy group. The soldier who hated it at first. But after a while of sitting, and listening, and talking, and finally being understood, he looks at the flowerpots on his kitchen windowsill and smiles. Because maybe there is something worthwhile in life.

PTSD is the hermit with their pets. Who love and appreciate them unconditionally. They don't need the world, this is their world. He speaks freely here.

PTSD is the teen, who goes on to live a successful and happy life. Who cuts off the drug woven ties of their family. Who starts their own family. Free of impertinence.

PTSD is the child that speaks to the combat veteran after class, who apologizes for their classmates rude behavior and questions. The vet realizes that this young kid has also been through a different type of hell. 

PTSD is the other dorm mate who gets their friend a weighted blanket for Christmas. Who comforts them and encourages them to speak openly about the nightmares they experience. Who helps them finally sleep through the night without incident.

PTS is the support network of people with one common goal, to break the stigma of their unfortunate circumstance. They speak in a secret language, just by crossing out that last fateful letter. " _I've got you, my brother."_

And, it is the knocking at the door that Jay fails to hear through the screaming in his ears. Tim pushes the door open slowly.

"Jay? Are you here?" The light breaks the dark room, and reveals a shaking curled form on the bed.

Tim suspects the worst, Jay is gravely injured. He rushes over.

"Jay? Jay can you hear me?"

Tim rolls him onto his back, but there is no wound or obvious issue. Not until he sees the far-away glaze in Jay's stare, and cheeks rubbed raw from tears.

" _Mmph …"_ Jay whines barely over a whisper. 

He's not … exactly sure how to break him from the stupor. He snaps a finger in front of his face. Suddenly Jay jumps with a gasp, and his eyes finally focus a bit on Tim. They dart around trying to recognize him. There's no tall creature in a suit, but a shorter flesh and blood human.

"H-Hey Tim." He hiccups.

"Don't hey Tim me." But it has no aggression backing it.

"Mrmm."

"What's wrong?"

"Uh nothing it's no problem really-"

"You look exhausted, have you been sleeping? You need sleep-"

"I-"

"Don't lie to me Merrick."

"I can't sleep … I'm afraid too…"

Tim sighs. They shared more in common than he thought.

"Fatigue is going to make these attacks worse, ok? First thing you should do is get some sleep." 

Jay groans in disapproval.

"Do I have to put you to bed like a baby? Do you need naptime?"

"Shut up …" but Tim hears a puff of laughter behind the ark that shields his face.

Jay guessed by now that Tim wasn't going to leave him alone about it. But that wouldn't stop him from being as annoying as possible. "I'm fine I don't need sleep I just had a little incident that's all…"

They were going to go searching the woods tonight, but this takes precedence, Tim decidea. "I will hold you to this bed until you go to sleep." Tim says with a huff, this being the least awkward way to put it.

"I'm going to get in my car…"

But Tim is true to his word and actually tackles him back on the bed using his arms like a belt. to secure Jay to the bed.

"H-Hey!" It surprises him but he actually laughs because Tim's face is stoic and unshifting with a grumpy stubbornness like a child.

"You're not going to let me go aren't you?"

"Mm-mm."

Jay tries sitting up again but Tim's a lot stronger than him and one arm wraps around his back, folded over his chest, pulling him down like a backpack strap everytime he even attempts to move.

Though he lets Jay wiggle just enough to get a bit more comfortable.

He indulges himself listening to Tim's heartbeat and inflation of air in his lungs. And maybe he is feeling a _little_ bit tired. Or a lot. Yes a lot, his head almost aches with a tired migraine.

"You really … don't have to do this … I'll be fine eventually, this happens all the time." Though he really has no intention of escaping anymore.

"Talking isn't sleeping Jay."

"Ugh." 

He's slipping, eyes fighting with him until he can't comprehend keeping them open. He has a few moments where he jumps awake, eyes shooting open again, but he quickly shuts them, until _finally_ his breathing evens out and the remains of swirling cortisol ease.

And Tim is still there, like an anchor. A warm human anchor that doesn't stare at him with the kinds of eyes he sees on so many others faces.

The darkness of the room and the tightness of his throat aren't daunting anymore. And Tim is _there_ for him. Holding him and not ignoring him like his parents, telling him to go back to bed as he screamed into the night.

Tim is … human. What a human _should_ be. Right now it doesn't matter who he is or what he's done just that they're two living beings with the satisfaction of an understanding.

He could get used to something like this.

**Author's Note:**

> Literally the only ever good thing I've had with PTS is probably the changes perspective on the world. I probably wouldn't be as open and understanding if I hadn't experienced the things I did.  
> Oh wait there IS one more good thing - you can sense when bullshit is about to happen before it happens and get to say "TOLD YOU SOOOOOOOO"
> 
> Thank you to all those who allowed me to cite your stories, you guys are the best.


End file.
